


Little Stranger

by robotboy



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1970s, Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Crossdressing Kink, First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-01
Updated: 2017-07-01
Packaged: 2018-11-21 22:22:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11366844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/robotboy/pseuds/robotboy
Summary: A fanfic of a fanfic: set in the Dandies In The Under-world, fiertedubearn's 1970s rock star AU of The Musketeers. Athos and D'Artagnan's first time together.





	Little Stranger

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fiertedubearn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fiertedubearn/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Dandies In The Underworld](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11099907) by [fiertedubearn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fiertedubearn/pseuds/fiertedubearn). 



> NEW SONG (demo)
> 
> (KINGS RECORDS '72)
> 
> Oliver 'Athos' Delafère: Lead Vocals and Bass  
> Baron Porthos Vallons: Drums  
> René 'Aramis' Herblay: Guitars and Vocals
> 
> Recorded by C. D'Artagnan

It starts, or something of it starts, during a soundcheck. The Inseparables are tight this afternoon, pent-up with energy and ten minutes to spare.

‘Want to try the new song?’ Porthos asks.

Aramis clicks his tongue. ‘I layered rhythm under my lead in the demo. It wouldn't sound right with only one guitar...'

Porthos huffs with frustration. It is, in D’Artagnan’s opinion, one of the Inseparables’ best songs. He's jammed it with Aramis, but that's different from how it could sound with a band. From how it deserves to be played someday.

And then—

'D’Artagnan can play rhythm,' Athos declares.

D’Artagnan’s head snaps up in surprise. Athos leans into the microphone to ask, ‘We can use the supports’ amp, yeah?’

An affirmative is shouted from the mix desk. Aramis nods toward his Stratocaster on the rack, and D’Artagnan’s already picking it up. He quickly adjusts the extra amp, his spine tingling at the sharp buzzing of the lead when he plugs it in.

Athos gives him a look, confirming he’s ready, and D’Artagnan has to remind himself to nod. He strums a short chord to check, and the Strat roars. He wouldn't believe his feet were still touching the ground until Athos plucks out a bass note that reverberates from D’Artagnan’s toes to his scalp. Porthos clicks them in.

He’s practiced the song dozens of times with Aramis—caught himself humming it in the shower—and the chords are automatic under his fingers. Porthos’ flourishes cue him from verse to chorus with ease. Aramis, with the rhythm supporting him, is showing off unabashedly. It leaves Athos and D’Artagnan to drive the song together, Athos’ grinding bass a solid weight in D’Artagnan’s chest that he fills and surrounds with the Strat. Athos’ voice crawls and punches its way through the song. Aramis' falsetto floats over it while Porthos keeps them tethered in their frenetic pace. They steal glances at him, at first checking then more and more, with fleeting excitement.

Though the hall is empty, D’Artagnan’s blood is electric. Nothing has ever felt as good as this—as this _noise_. It’s so much. It’s everything.

As Athos’ yell dies off at the end of the second chorus, he pulls away to stomp on his pedals. In the demo, the bass continues through the bridge, but Athos plucks a single note and loops it to drone endlessly. D’Artagnan takes the cue and mutes the strings with his palm, carrying the melody faintly while the bass rumbles on.

Athos lets go of his guitar and brings both hands up to the microphone. He almost comes in a bar too early but instead just breathes—an intimate, vulnerable sound—his lips half-wrapped around the mic. The bass sways as Athos taps his foot, and though his fingers curl he never grasps the stand, instead pressing it with his wrists as his head lolls. He purrs the lyrics in a long, desperate breath. Sung like this, they are _filthy_. Athos sinks as though the floor is sucking him in and the mic stand is the only thing keeping him upright. The bass hangs off him as he widens his stance, still murmuring steadily, the buzz of his lips on mesh audible through the foldback.

His shoulders rise as he twists his head to gasp for breath between beats, then they drop and he drops, his hips rolling back and outward. As he grinds against air, his eyes open a crack and catch D'Artagnan's for a moment. D'Artagnan presses the Strat down firmly against his groin to keep himself in check, but Athos watches that too.

Athos looks for all the world like he's going to beg the mic to come on his face.

Then he seizes his bass by the neck and launches them into the last chorus, almost biting the mic as he lunges at it. His hair has shaken loose of its ponytail and he growls through to the end, every gasp and quaver in his throat bared for them.

The feedback hums and Athos keeps panting, pulling reluctantly away from the mic. Aramis' eyes are bright and Porthos is grinning. Athos turns to them with an approving smile, as though he hasn't just given an obscene performance with the equipment.

D'Artagnan's heart is racing. He can't be the one to say it, because it's not his place, but the song was _perfect_.

'Good,' Athos says, a little breathless, but it's all he says. Aramis starts forward a little as though he's going to say something, but it's too soon. D'Artagnan knows that. It's good because the song was good. He lifts the Strat from his shoulders and places it back on the rack, then dials the amp back to its original settings. He glances up at Porthos, who winks at him fondly. D'Artagnan can't suppress a smile, so he busies himself with taping cables—and his shirt hangs mercifully over his crotch as he crouches beside Athos' pedals.

—

The set is good. The night is good. It's all almost as good as the new song.

It’s like the whine of an amp left on, easy to ignore at first and then once he knows it’s there it sets his teeth on edge until the humming consumes his whole body. And D’Artagnan can’t, he _can’t_ , because he wants… what is it that he wants?

Athos’ mouth making a mess of him like it made a mess of that microphone. Athos’ hips canted out like that, for him. Athos’ throaty voice groaning because he can’t hold it back. Athos’ eyes sliding open and all over him, like they did when he—when he was;

_Kitty._

It was silly. The music had been so loud, he’d said _Charlie_ and they said _Charlie, Charlotte, Kitty, Kitty!_ and he’d laughed along, and they’d said _that little kitten mouth,_ and _here, kitty kitty!_ He tosses clothes across the bed as he empties his suitcase because he brought it, a tightly stuffed ball of indigo velvet he’d never meant to take out. He couldn’t _not_ bring it after Athos looked at him like that at four in the morning over too-hot coffee. The dress is over his head before his jeans are even off. With them go his briefs. One of the girls had promised, _I’ll teach you how to tuck that out of the way next time, little Kitty_ but there hasn’t been a next time and he’s half-hard and finds he likes it this way.

It’s not the dress, anyway. It’s how he gets looked at in the dress. It’s how Athos looked at him in the dress.

He sprawls over the scattered clothes, the dress' hem rucking up over his hips as he takes himself in hand. Immediately he’s panting loudly, feet churning and back arching. This is going to be over quickly. He stifles a moan by cramming the heel of his palm against his mouth, his fingers tangling in his hair. Too loud, he’s too loud: the walls are thin and the ice machine is right outside his room. Besides, Athos’ room is at the end of the hall. Athos might be back already. The thought doesn’t ease D’Artagnan in the slightest. His teeth are printing the meat of his hand and the dress is tight on his chest as he gasps unevenly. 

At the last moment he rolls to one side, a little bit in an effort not to ruin the dress and mostly because he can’t believe he’s done this. He comes hard, all over one of his t-shirts, with a weak noise and tendrils of hair clinging to the sweat on his cheeks.

He lies there, panting, his eyes screwed tightly shut. Doing anything else would mean dealing with this in some way, so he doesn’t. The clothes underneath him are lumpy and the lights are still on, but as the afterglow shines through he slides easily into sleep.

The walls really are thin. He startles awake as the ice machine rattles. It’s just gone one in the morning, but he feels as though he’s had a full night’s rest. The machine stops and starts, over and over, until he can’t ignore it.

It’s Athos. It must be. Athos, getting enough ice for a bucket, so he can stick his head in. Like he does.

And damn him, D’Artagnan is still feeling the haze of that orgasm, held in by the velvet clinging to him. Before he can think this is the stupidest thing he could do, he tugs the dress down to as decent a length as it will go, and he opens his door.

If it goes badly, he can say he’s complaining about the noise. There’s no way Athos would buy it.

D’Artagnan hangs off the doorframe in what he wishes looked casual and enticing, but he knows his mouth is hanging open and his eyes are blown like he’s just done lines. He’s terrified.

Athos looks up from the ice machine. He’s barefoot, shirt mostly unbuttoned and untucked from his leather pants. Of course he’s unruffled by D'Artagnan standing there, and unreadable beyond that. He leans over to set the champagne bucket he’s got on the floor. His expression might say nothing but his eyes haven’t left D’Artagnan.

It’s how Athos looks at him in the dress.

D’Artagnan is hardening again, and he knows it—they both do. It’s obvious, now: the time has long passed since D’Artagnan could ask Athos to be quiet, or even if he wants to have a drink. That’s not what he wants.

Athos shifts in a way that blocks D’Artagnan from being seen by anyone who might pass them by, even if it is past one. Protective. Possessive. D’Artagnan’s heart is beating so quickly it’s going to barrel out of his mouth soon. He stares at a point past Athos’ ear, as though he can’t feel those eyes pouring over him like molasses.

‘Did you pull?’ Athos asks, like he wants to know the time.

D’Artagnan shakes his head, his mouth too dry for words. He realises what he’s just admitted: that he’s got sex hair, a tight dress, and nothing else on, and he wore it for himself. A flush presses his cheeks, but if he’s lucky Athos won’t notice it under the jaundiced light of the hallway. And besides, Athos isn’t looking at his face.

Athos is looking with curiosity—but not surprise—at the bulge that’s become impossible to ignore. D’Artagnan shifts his weight and makes it worse. He’s said nothing at all; he should say something. His mouth opens right as Athos palms his dick. The motion turns quickly to cupping when D’Artagnan’s knees almost give out. D’Artagnan has to stop himself grasping Athos’ shoulders for dear life, like Athos grasped the mic stand, as though gravity had just tripled and the only thing that could keep him in place was _this_. Even as he stumbles toward Athos, Athos twists so they’re aligned like dancers but barely touching. Athos’ beard tickles D’Artagnan’s throat and his voice is husky and soft but perfectly clear.

‘Get your key.’

D’Artagnan whines as Athos lets go of him, and momentum carries him where his balance doesn’t. He takes the key from the table and before he can get anything else—a coat, shoes, even pants—Athos is dragging him back out by the arm. Walking in the dress is difficult at the best of times. In this state, at this pace, he’s glad Athos is steering him briskly down the hall, before the fear of being seen can outweigh the excitement still brimming in him.

Athos is quick with his own key, letting D’Artagnan scurry into his room. 

Once D'Artagnan finds his footing and turns to Athos, he's appraised again, this time with a more open hunger than in the hallway. He sucks his lower lip between his teeth, suddenly unsure that Athos will want to kiss him, worrying the skin harder than he means to. Athos reaches up and cradles his jaw, thumb at the corner of D'Artagnan's mouth, tracing along his cupid's bow and gently dragging his bitten lip free. Athos' eyes flicker to it, then meets his gaze with an intensity that heralds the kiss that follows.

Athos devours him. D'Artagnan opens to it eagerly, Athos' tongue dragging over his mouth the moment he does. It feels as though Athos kisses with his entire face, sucking D'Artagnan's lip to bite it some more, hard enough to bruise. D'Artagnan has to pull free to kiss him back. Athos doesn't relent so much as he twists his head to take all D'Artagnan will give him. Athos' tongue draws D'Artagnan's into his mouth, the salt-sour of blood cut by the sweetness of whisky. The hand on D'Artagnan's jaw slides around to grip tightly on his hair, pulling D'Artagnan closer yet against Athos' open mouth. It aches along with the sting of Athos' teeth, giving an urgent edge to the wanting pull in D’Artagnan.

Under D'Artagnan's sharp exhale is a low whine from Athos. The roughness in Athos' kissing has a determined edge to it, but not commanding, D'Artagnan realises. Athos is crushing him desperately closer, angling himself for D'Artagnan to take him. D'Artagnan steers Athos back toward the bed and Athos stumbles, gasping open and wet on D'Artagnan's cheek. D'Artagnan stretches his hand across Athos' collarbones, unsure if he has crossed a line—which of them Athos wants in charge. Athos releases his grip on D'Artagnan's hair, head dropping to watch as D'Artagnan presses him downwards. When Athos is seated on the bed, his gaze fixed low, D'Artagnan curiously nudges his hand up until finger and thumb are spread lightly across Athos' throat. Athos obliges, baring himself for D'Artagnan, leaning into the pressure. His legs spread in invitation, and when D'Artagnan hesitates, he runs his hands down D'Artagnan's sides, clutching velvet in his fists when he reaches D'Artagnan's hips. Then he tugs D'Artagnan forward, nuzzling his crotch and breathing hotly through the fabric. D'Artagnan moans, the dress' hem pulled uncomfortably taut, and balances one knee on the bed. Athos finally pulls him free, and then his mouth is as much a mess on D'Artagnan's cock as it was on his face.

D'Artagnan would not be sure it was happening, until Athos' eyes dart up to his, heavy-lidded, pupils huge, and still sharp, checking D'Artagnan is watching Athos' lips and tongue drag over his cock. And now D'Artagnan knows it looks as much like an extension of the microphone as he'd imagined. Athos is unselfconsciously sloppy, sliding his mouth over D'Artagnan and half-swallowing his cock, hissing through his nose. One hand still grasps the dress at D'Artagnan's hip, and with the other Athos works his fly open, drawing himself out. His groan as he gets a hand around himself vibrates around D'Artagnan's cock. D'Artagnan threads his fingers into Athos' hair, overwhelmed, and Athos only moans again, arching into it. D'Artagnan pulls gently and Athos responds with fervour, nodding for him to pull harder. He tries it, drawing Athos off his cock a moment—in part for the relief, and then to see him jerking off. Athos watches him watch, face pressed into fabric, then moves to suck him down again. D'Artagnan yanks his hair, making Athos gasp against his sensitised skin. He'll come from any more of this, and he's not ready for it to be over.

He releases Athos' hair and Athos falls back on his elbows, ankle hooking around D'Artagnan's thigh and bringing him to his knees on the mattress. Athos is splayed before him, pliable when D'Artagnan undoes the few remaining shirt buttons to expose him further. D'Artagnan brushes over Athos' cock where it rests flush to his belly, but doesn’t linger, moving his hands back up to drag through the thick hair from his navel to his chest. D'Artagnan slides the shirt off Athos' shoulders. Athos doesn't lift his elbows to remove the shirt, even when D'Artagnan presses him. D'Artagnan bears down, testing, and finally Athos wriggles until he's lying down, his arms now above his head, tangled in the sleeves. 

There’s a daring glint in Athos’ look now. D'Artagnan raises an eyebrow, raking his nails from shoulder to chest to make Athos groan. He arches when D'Artagnan pinches his nipple, and groans again, louder, as the other is tweaked roughly. The hair on his torso is thick enough to pull, and D'Artagnan's nails drag over the sensitive skin of his stomach. Athos squirms at his sides being touched, making D'Artagnan chuckle. Laid out like this, Athos' sweat smells rich and heady. D'Artagnan ducks to lick broadly at Athos’ underarm. Athos whines, struggling in the knot of his own shirt. Amused, D'Artagnan pins him in place, laving until his mouth tastes like sex, like Athos, and Athos’ voice gains the edge of a plea to it. D'Artagnan moves up to suck the straining tricep with pressure that will bruise. Athos cries out, and when D'Artagnan moves to nuzzle the other armpit Athos wriggles in an attempt to kick. D'Artagnan teases, nose buried in the spray of hair, until Athos growls and bucks him off.

D'Artagnan rolls away, snagging a belt loop and pulling Athos with him. Athos writhes as he shrugs his sleeves away, and they both work to peel him from the leather. Athos, presumably from years of practice, manages to make it look intriguingly gymnastic as he kicks himself free of his tight pants. He keeps his momentum, swinging up to straddle D’Artagnan. There are so many places for D’Artagnan to put his hands. Athos arches into them on his chest, his waist, and his hips. He grinds down firmly on D’Artagnan, focused, forceful, letting D’Artagnan’s cock slide between his ass cheeks as he settles his stance wider. D’Artagnan noses up for a kiss and Athos dodges the first few attempts, but when he kisses—oh, he does. He clutches D’Artagnan’s face in both hands, pulling his hair a little, rutting back down against him until there’s no question where this is going.

Athos only releases D’Artagnan’s face to grab his hand and shove it, fumbling and rushed, between their bodies. D’Artagnan grips Athos’ thigh, fingertips hard on the soft skin, and Athos moans against his cheek. When D’Artagnan slides his fingers inward, ghosting over the crease of Athos’ ass to press behind his balls, Athos makes a more urgent noise. He pushes back against D’Artagnan’s touch, then shifts himself sideways, scrabbling for the nightstand. D’Artagnan cranes to watch but Athos works too quickly, hand snaking down to slick D’Artagnan’s fingers, callused palm gripping his knuckles tightly and working them until they’re dripping.

D’Artagnan tries to catch Athos’ eye, but his hair falls in his face as he bows his head. Athos drags his cheek across the neckline of the dress, inhaling, nuzzling; his hips twitching as they seek D’Artagnan’s fingers. Only when D’Artagnan slips the first one into him does Athos steal a look at him, wide and trusting. D’Artagnan rolls his lower lip between his teeth again, then his mouth falls open as he twists his finger inside Athos. Athos almost crawls right up D’Artagnan, inviting him further in, quickly taking two. Athos props himself on his elbow so he can reach D’Artagnan’s cock, his hand still wet but warmer now, coating D'Artagnan everywhere that isn’t still wet with spit and precome. He kisses D’Artagnan hungrily, lip trembling with each curl of D’Artagnan’s fingers.

Athos rocks back insistently, fucking himself down harder until D’Artagnan spreads and stretches him. Finally Athos arches, heel of his palm pressing to D’Artagnan’s ribs to prop himself up. When D’Artagnan draws his fingers free, Athos grunts softly, his eyelashes fluttering. D’Artagnan steadies him with one hand at his waist, the other under his thigh.

‘Please…’ Athos murmurs—as though he has to ask—reaching down to line D’Artagnan’s cock up. His other hand claws deep lines into the velvet. D’Artagnan swallows and nods, guiding Athos to sink onto him, holding his breath as if the moment will stop being real. Athos exhales for him, long and rough, until he’s seated on D’Artagnan. He bunches the hem of the dress in his fist, clenched just as tight around D’Artagnan’s cock while the rest of him is languid.

D’Artagnan gives a shallow thrust and Athos tosses his head back. ‘ _Yes,_ ’ he breathes, and the sound becomes a slow, undulating movement from his crown to his thighs that ripples into D’Artagnan.

Athos smirks at him, both knowing and inviting. The thrill of it surges through D’Artagnan: this secret, this thing they now share, _this_. He rocks into Athos and Athos rides him with determination, almost desperation. His pace is erratic and demanding, and D’Artagnan could lie here watching Athos lose himself in it, but he wants more than that. He takes Athos’ waist in one hand, thigh in the other, holding him firmly when he seems likely to pitch over with his chaotic momentum.

D’Artagnan grasps harder and Athos moans, his hips canted out just like earlier; like his tantalising dance that started at soundcheck. He blinks, still rolling into D’Artagnan’s steady thrusts, and takes up his role in setting a driving, relentless rhythm. His thumb rubs small circles against D’Artagnan’s hipbone under the dress, and his voice is a husky, frayed mess that he can’t seem to make into words. D’Artagnan moves with Athos like a melody, finding the things that will pull whimpers and shivers from him. It’s something instinctive, or intuitive, the feeling they can wring from each other. It’s everything they’ve never talked about but they both know—the way Athos looks at him, and now, D’Artagnan realises, the way he has looked at Athos too.

D’Artagnan’s touch shifts from Athos’ thigh to brush his cock and Athos almost tumbles forward, righting himself with a shallow huff of breath. D’Artagnan strokes him and Athos responds beautifully, reaching to cup D’Artagnan’s neck and cling to him. They aren’t close enough to kiss but D’Artagnan can taste the warmth of Athos’ breath where it gusts against his throat, and feel the weight of his cock as it twitches with every callused drag of D’Artagnan’s palm. That, and the taut searing heat inside Athos, where he grinds down to keep them flush together. D’Artagnan feels as though his lungs won’t fill where the dress constricts him slightly, giving everything an edge, that barely-reined urgency of the new song’s bridge. The tempo climbs along with the pitch of Athos’ voice, his moans tipped with falsetto. 

D’Artagnan tugs Athos’ cock with conviction now, fucking Athos hard enough he’s nearly bouncing. Athos’ fingers curl helplessly, his legs locking at D’Artagnan’s sides. When he comes, it’s with that vulnerable little sound spoken into D’Artagnan’s chest where Athos collapses on it. D’Artagnan’s earlier effort to save the dress is for nothing, and he doesn’t care in the slightest as Athos ruins it, cock pulsing with every jerk of D’Artagnan’s hips.

Athos lolls on him like a ragdoll, and D’Artagnan barely has a moment to wonder if they should stop before Athos makes a noise in the back of his throat, lips dragging over D’Artagnan’s collarbone, and keeps moving. The pinnacle of each thrust drags heavy shudders from him, which resonate around D’Artagnan’s cock. Athos rides him harder than before, his mouth wet and open with frantic gasps into D’Artagnan’s skin. The sweat-smell from earlier is intoxicating, making D’Artagnan’s nostrils flare. With no rhythm to tether him anymore, he fucks Athos wildly, his own voice breaking into something close to a howl as Athos takes and takes. Athos rises enough to focus on D’Artagnan’s face, drinking him in. Fingertips, rough from the thick strings of the bass trace the outline of D’Artagnan’s lips with reverence. D’Artagnan is clawing at the small of Athos’ back, to pull him up; down; more; _more_. Athos lets him, revelling in it, nuzzling roughly into the velvet when D’Artagnan is close to bucking him off, before taking D’Artagnan’s face in both hands and staring. He’s so close it feels as though they’re bound together, everything being wrung from D’Artagnan, everything. His heart is pounding, roaring, pleasure is cresting in him like waves. It’s electric and dark at once, deep and heavy and intimate. He’s so close and they’re so tight together, they fit not like a puzzle but like destiny. Like nothing was ever as real as right now.

And the words Athos says to him then, they’re too soon to say, but he does, and the orgasm that hits him is as loud and full as the chorus when they played it together, the moment tipping from Athos’ tongue with three beautiful words, three words that would make anyone in the world come:

‘Join the band.’


End file.
